


Banishing Her Ghost, or, Five Things That Reminded Greg of His Ex-Wife, and One Thing That Did Not

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: After The Rain Comes The Sunshine [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Days, Butterfly Effect, M/M, POV Greg, Past Infidelity, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 08:58:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10828014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Why is everything reminding Greg of his ex-wife?





	Banishing Her Ghost, or, Five Things That Reminded Greg of His Ex-Wife, and One Thing That Did Not

**Author's Note:**

> After a comment from [Lavender_and_Vanilla](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_and_Vanilla/pseuds/Lavender_and_Vanilla) on the story formerly known as "After the Rain" (which I have now renamed "en français, or Five Times..."), a set of stories incorporating the Butterfly Effect blossomed in my head, one for each potential Mr.Holmes - Mycroft, Greg, Sherlock and John. The whole series is now called "After the Rain Comes the Sunshine", and I anticipate Sherlock and Greg coming along reasonably soon now. Thanks to Lavender_and_Vanilla for your inspiration!

Five times something reminded Greg of his ex-wife...

1.

Greg hadn’t thought about lilies for ages. Flowers were not generally on his radar, anyway, but he’d stopped thinking specifically about things to do with Kathryn the day she’d left. Lilies had been her favourite flower, and he’d bought them for her on birthdays and anniversaries. Someone had once told him they symbolised innocence and purity, which had seemed sweet until it was ironic, her infidelity casting a different light on her preference. Given that there were no women in his life, no mother or sister for whom to buy flowers, he was now free to block them completely from his zone of awareness.

Until an enormous bouquet arrived in his office, carried by an irritated delivery guy demanding a signature.

“She’s not here, mate, they’re not for me!” Greg tried telling him.

“Mate, I don’t care if you’re Sally Donovan or not. Sign for the bloody flowers, will you?” The delivery guy said, dumping them on his desk. Exasperated, Greg scrawled across his form, scowling at the already open blooms. Anderson again, he figured, choosing the open flowers as a cheap option. Unfortunately for Greg, this meant they spilled pollen all over his desk as they dropped, the bright orange fluff scattering across his pale grey trousers, where it would certainly stain.

Wiping fruitlessly at them in the men’s room, Greg was overwhelmed with another memory, the heavy scent fuelling his recollection. He’d bought lilies for Kathryn on her birthday, filling the large vases in their living room. She’d criticised his choice, pouting that she couldn’t enjoy them on her birthday because they weren’t even open yet. He’d had to endure them for another week as they slowly opened, the flat smelling like a funeral home as the perfume grew heavier and heavier. Now, trying to salvage his trousers for at least the rest of the day, Greg felt the emotion rising in his chest, smothering him.

Swearing, he picked up the flowers and took them out to Sally’s desk, dumping them haphazardly, a fierce satisfaction at the cascade of pollen that landed on her paperwork. Running one hand through his hair, Greg stalked to the lift. He needed a break. As the doors opened, Donovan stepped past Greg, doing a double take as he turned to her.

“Get rid of those flowers. And clean up the mess in my office!” he snapped at her. The doors closed before she could respond.

2.

Outside, Greg hesitated. He wanted to get right out of the building, have a breather, but where to go? He decided he needed a coffee and a pastry, and to heck with his diet. He was trying to rein in the slow middle aged spread, but the sporadic morning run was no longer enough to offset his habit of grabbing bad coffee and worse takeaway. Sod it, this time he had a good reason. He ordered an apple turnover and a coffee, people watching as he waited. He wondered what was happening in their lives. The puzzle, the work, as Sherlock put it, was always interesting. Though he took far longer to get there than Sherlock, Greg knew he was good at his job. Kathryn had not seen the satisfaction he took in apprehending criminals, though; the light in his eyes had died at her snide remarks too often for him to continue to share it with her.

_‘How nice that someone caught your attention today, even if it wasn’t me.’_

He shook the memory away. No matter how hard he’d tried to explain, to put off the promotions they’d offered him because they would have meant even longer hours, she had never been happy as a copper’s wife. It had taken several affairs despite all his efforts for Greg to finally accept that.

“Skinny mocha?” The waitress offered him, plonking the glass down and turning to leave.

“Uh, this isn’t mine.” Greg said. “I ordered a flat white.”

She appeared completely indifferent. “That’s what it says on the order.” When she made no move to take the wrong drink away, Greg picked it up and handed it to her.

“I ordered a flat white, not a skinny mocha.”

The girl rolled her eyes and finally departed. Greg watched her argue with the barista, who was pointing at the table behind Greg’s, where a woman was waiting patiently. She was attractive, Greg noticed, though he turned away when her eyes met his. He was in no mood to chat up or be chatted up.

The right drink finally arrived, a different waitress bringing it over and apologising for the error. Greg sipped at it, picking at his pastry with no appetite. Just as he decided to give it up as a bad lot, the woman from the adjacent table stood and walked past, slipping a folded napkin on the table as she did so.

Greg’s heart beat a little faster. Perhaps he could be interested, if she was going to be so…

_Give me a call if you’d like to help me find a better coffee shop. Katharine x_

Nope. His heart didn’t just sink, it froze. Her name, though spelled differently, was homonymous with his ex-wife. Katharine. Kathryn. Even with the extra syllable, Kath-a-rine was so close to Kath-ryn, and there would undoubtedly be people who called her Kath-ryn. Kathy. Kath.

“Damn it!” Greg swore under his breath, screwing up the napkin. His interest had been lukewarm at best, but the idea that _she_ was still an influence in his life was galling to say the least.

3.

“Nah, probably not, I mean she was hot but…”

Greg cleared his throat, raising a pointed eyebrow at Anderson’s minions. They blushed and scurried off. Greg didn’t really care where; the bad mood still hung around him and he had no patience for them. Another murder. He knew he’d always be in a job, especially when it was done as badly as this. There was evidence even he couldn’t miss (thanks Sherlock for that inner voice), and he’d already sent Sally along to bring the husband in to ‘help with their enquiries’.

Anderson was doing a terrible job, Greg noticed, and he and Donovan had not spoken a single word to each other. Clearly the flowers weren’t enough to forgive and forget, Greg thought with a grim smile. Perhaps some sense was finally getting into Sally. He could hope, at least.

“Your newbies are wandering around, do you want them to process the rest of this?” Greg finally offered, Anderson staring into space again. He jerked then nodded at Greg, not meeting his eyes. Feeling guilty, Greg deduced. He found the young pair and sent them in to see Anderson, hoping they’d keep out of trouble under his short tempered eye. His mobile buzzed, and he saw a new message from Sally. Well, not.

_This is Tamara Jones. Hubby made a break for it. He’s in cuffs but Donovan had a nasty bump on the head. Paras took her to St Barts. We’ll bring hubby in, process him for the assault._

This day gets better and better, Greg thought, seeing the paperwork from the day practically triple. He should go to the hospital and at least check in on Sally. Should he tell Anderson? Nah, Sally could call him if she wanted him to know what happened. Greg put his lights and sirens on, not in the mood to wait as he drove across London to St Barts. Watching other people get out of his way in a hurry gave him the same thrill as it had the very first time; the alpha male in him heartily approved, especially today.

“Hey boss.” Sally slurred when he finally found her. She’d been knocked out and they wanted to keep her overnight at least, but she’d be fine.

 “Gotta check you’re not gonna die on me, I can’t do the paperwork twice.” He joked, and she grinned at the black copper’s humour. She closed her eyes then, slipping out again. The nurse sitting by her bed checked her vital signs and told Greg, “She’ll probably sleep for a while now. You can go if you want. We’ll call you if anything changes.”

Greg nodded. The sight of Sally grinning at his attempted humour, lying in a hospital bed brought another Kathryn memory back. God, what was it today that was making him so reflective? He could see the scene – Kathryn had been knocked over by a bike courier and they wanted to keep her in for observation. Greg had cracked almost the same joke, and she’d stared at him, stony faced as he grinned uncomfortably. _No gallows humour, then_ , he’d thought, and tucked that part of himself away with the other bits she didn’t like. Right now, Greg sighed again. There was no escaping it, was there. She was everywhere today.

 4.

It had been a long few days, but Greg had finally escaped the office. He’d been hoping for a good long interrogation, but the husband had cracked almost immediately. A small part of Greg always worried that there would be something that would overturn their whole case, so he and his reluctant team stayed on to finish all the paperwork, reports and processing of evidence and statements in one go. Not the most fun he’d ever have, but his three days off now would be more restful knowing their case was airtight against the jealous scumbag.

“Pub, boss?” Sally asked. She’d been off on med leave, coming in this afternoon to sign the assault paperwork and make her own statement.

“Yeah…” Greg replied, though he knew bed would be a better option. He couldn’t face his empty flat right now. They started walking up the street towards their usual, a group of junior officers surrounding them on their way.

“Can you believe Hugh Grant’s still playing that guy?” Someone jeered at a movie poster displayed on a bus stop as they passed. It was the fourth in the Bridget Jones series. Greg stopped dead, his insides twisting at the cheesy movie poster.

“Boss?” Sally’s voice was there, though it seemed to be a long way away at the same time. The crowd moved on, but Greg knew Sally was still there.

“First movie we saw together, that was.” Greg said, knowing Sally had no idea why he had stopped. He glanced at her face and saw the puzzled expression. “The first movie I saw with my ex-wife was the first Bridget Jones movie.” He gestured at the poster. “She’s bloody everywhere today.”

Sally frowned. “Bridget Jones?”

Greg barked a harsh laugh. “No, my ex-wife.”

“Oh.” Sally said. There was an awkward silence for a moment. Greg’s mind was reminding him of the other firsts that night had lead to – first kiss, first time they’d made love, first flat…

“Come and have a pint, boss, forget about her.” Sally offered. When Greg didn’t move she added, “You’re well shot of her, you know. You deserve much better, Greg.” She rarely used his name, preferring the casually respectful ‘boss’. He turned and looked at her.

“So do you, Sally.” His voice was quiet. “What are you doing with Anderson, seriously. He’s a sleeze, and you’re better than that.” She looked shocked, then defensive, but he spoke again before she could open her mouth. “Just watching out for you, yeah?” Sally’s open mouth closed, and she nodded. Greg clapped her on the shoulder, nodding towards the bar. “Go on then. I’ll see you on Monday.” He turned and walked away before she could convince him to stay. Christ, he just needed a decent sleep.

 5.

Late the next morning, Greg emerged from his flat. He felt much better for his excess of sleep and abstinence from alcohol, and he’d resolved to do the run he used to do so regularly. Thank God he’d seen that poster last night, or he’d be nursing a hangover as usual. As he plodded around the park, Greg tried hard to buoy himself with positive thoughts. He planned the rest of his day, resolving to put more effort into getting out and meeting some new people. Maybe he should find an open mike night? He’d had a good voice as a younger man, and the open mike scene had been fun. The idea filled him with a good vibe, and he was puffing hard when he finished his loop. As he walked home, looking forward to a hot shower, the heavens opened, dumping the contents of the grey clouds that had sneaked up while he wasn’t looking. Giving up, Greg ducked into a tube station for the short ride home.

It seemed like half of London had had the same idea, and the carriage was crowded. Just his luck, the poster by the door was for the same Bridget Jones movie as he’d seen the previous day. He turned away from it, determined to cling to the better mood he had so carefully worked up this morning.

“Oh my god, I love that movie!” the voice was young, female and loud. Greg winced.

“Me too! Did I tell you Graham took me to see it last night?” Loud Voice had a friend, and her voice was equally difficult to block out. Greg had no choice but to listen to their exchange, along with the rest of the carriage.

“Oooh, how was the date? I thought his name was Gavin, though?”

“No, Gavin was last week. I did call him Greyson for like an hour, it was so loud in the bar when I met him!”

 _Kathryn and I met in a bar. It was loud…_  Greg’s mind saw the scene before he could stop it. He shook his head in irritation.

“That’s hilarious! So you saw the movie, do you think you’ll see him again?”

“Oh for sure, he’s gorgeous. But I am seeing George next week too. No need to tell Graham, I don’t think we’ll be long term, you know?”

“Oh yeah, it’s just such a hassle when they want to be exclusive…”

“Totally.”

Greg felt a righteous anger for all these G-named men. This loud voice girl had the same attitude as Kathryn - string along as many as you can, don’t worry about their feelings. Greg’s bitterness snapped the tenuous hold on his temper. He turned to the girls as the train slid into a station and said, “I hope one day someone treats you as badly as you’re treating all these young men. Maybe then you’ll start acting like a decent person!” He stalked off the train, livid, before they could reply. The train departed and Greg realised he had no idea which station he was at. He just couldn’t listen to their inane conversation any more. He read the nameplate on the wall and sighed. Still three blocks to walk. With any luck the sky would have cleared.

 

…and one thing that made him forget.

It took a solid hour for Greg to get home and get warm and dry. He’d finally gotten rid of his anger too, sprinting home through the downpour until all he knew was the burn of his lungs. Now, though, he felt far less optimistic than during his run. Cautiously, he eyed the bottle of scotch in the corner. He could always watch whatever match was on, have a drink or two…

No. Bad idea. Get off your arse, Lestrade, and do something different. Make some new memories. Before he could change his mind, Greg had grabbed his jacket and keys and jumped in a cab. He googled ‘open mike London’ and had the driver take him to the nearest hit – more upscale than Greg was used to, but the open mike was all afternoon, and he’d be able to immerse himself in the completely new. No memories of Kathryn allowed.

“Gregory?” His name was the first thing he heard as he stood on the footpath, screwing up his courage to enter the frankly intimidating building.

“Mycroft?” Greg said stupidly. The other man was just coming out of the same door Greg had been contemplating entering. He stopped quite close to where Greg had paused, sheltering with him under the awning. The rain had started to slacken.

“You’re here for the open mike.” Mycroft stated, and Greg nodded, a flush making its way up his neck. Any vague thought of Kathryn was pushed out, as it always was when Mycroft was around.

Mycroft was watching Greg in that close way he did, eyes flickering up and down. Greg returned the scrutiny, noting the jeans and well fitted knit jumper encasing Mycroft’s slim frame. A long way from his usual suits, but no less appealing. Finally raising his eyes, Greg met Mycroft’s gaze. This was generally when Greg would blush and look away, but his stubbornness made him hold the look, raising an eyebrow in question. To Greg’s enormous surprise, Mycroft blushed, stammered and looked away, clearing his throat. It felt odd for him to be making the deductive leaps while Mycroft was speechless, but that was the situation Greg found himself in.

“Mycroft, you’ve been drinking.” Greg stated. The increased red flush on his ears was both adorable and telling. Confidence skyrocketing, Greg continued, “I’m going to make a deduction.”

Mycroft cleared his throat again and said stiffly, “Very good.” His ears were still pink, which Greg took for a good sign.

He went on, “And if my deduction is right, you’re going to be honest and tell me, okay?”

He saw Mycroft stiffen, a fight or flight response, before it steeled into a resolution that Greg read as, ‘okay, hit me with it’.

Greg waited until Mycroft met his eyes again. Stomach fluttering, he made himself say the words before his stubbornness faded. “You don’t need to look me up and down to make deductions. You’re checking me out.” The panic that rose in Mycroft’s eyes was clear, but he did not bolt, as Greg had thought he might. Instead he swallowed hard and nodded again.

Greg exhaled, then grinned. He did not look for words, allowing his smile to speak for him. Hesitantly, Mycroft’s mouth tilted up at the corners. His shoulders relaxed. Suddenly, they were just standing there, smiling at each other.

“Really?” Mycroft asked, and Greg could see him berate himself for the lapse in control.

Again, Greg did not speak. Instead he stepped close, breathing in the scent of subtly expensive aftershave and overtly expensive Scotch. Pausing to allow Mycroft the chance to protest, Greg traced the fingers of one hand along Mycroft’s face before cupping his jaw and settling their lips together. He felt the shaky ‘oh’ as Mycroft exhaled, then hands at his waist, clutching at his shirt beneath his jacket. After a long chaste kiss, Greg rested his forehead against Mycroft’s.

“Really.” He whispered, and they smiled at each other.

Greg looked up at the sky. “Rain’s stopped.”


End file.
